


Fragility and Ferocity

by Linguini, Lucyemers



Series: Precision Typing [2]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Gen, Past Infidelity, Pining, Regret, Season 3 Spoilers, Tea, general sadness, implied past Dorothea/Win, more tea, precision typing, win has a hand kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 22:30:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8119999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/pseuds/Linguini, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucyemers/pseuds/Lucyemers
Summary: Only months after a night spent in Win Thursday's arms, Dorothea Frazil finds herself called on to provide comfort again, this time in a decidedly more public fashion.





	

Dorothea Frazil usually hated being called on her day off. She resented the interruption of her few moment’s peace or itched to cover the breaking news herself. But today she is nothing but grateful to be off the clock and swiftly informed when she gets the call telling her there’s a hostage situation at the bank. 

“Joan works at the bank and Sam’s in his sixth year. Top of his class too.”

The echo of the conversation that she’s played far too many times over in her head is her first thought. There’s nothing saying it’s Joan’s branch, but there’s nothing saying it isn’t. So now she’s here asking questions of various officers, none of whom seem to know anything. They are used to her questions. She can show up and play off her presence as professional. It helps to tamp down her worry as she bustles about keeping a sharp eye out for the only person she’s really here for.

When Fred hangs up the phone, there’s no question that Win is going with him. It’s their daughter in the bank, and Win has her handbag ready almost before Fred’s opened the door. He doesn’t argue, just holds out his arm and heads down to the bus stop. Neither of them speaks during the interminable trip, nor when they’re off the bus and striding down the street towards the police cordon. 

There’s tension in Fred’s shoulders, in the way he leans into her as they walk that is more worrying than anything else. As they round the corner, Win catches sight of what looks like the whole of Cowley station (and a few more) in some sort of formation around the bank. Standing a bit back is Fred’s boss, DCS….Brigham? She’s only met him a few times before, at the Christmas party and once or twice at Fred’s bedside in hospital. Her abiding impression is of stuffiness and quiet, awkward questions.

But here now, as he approaches them, there’s none of that. He’s a man in his element--confident, assured, in command. He and Fred have a conversation for a moment that she barely pays attention to, eyes drawn to a figure in green, watching the proceedings with interest. Suddenly, there’s the phantom feel of fingers on her cheek, the sound of her name whispered in the dark, the smell of carnations. 

Dotty’s briefly surprised by Win’s calm exterior. And then immediately not surprised at all. She’s watched her hold it together before. It’s something that she does very well and Dotty hates it that she has to. She’s too busy trying to catch her eye to come up with any sort of excuse to speak with them, so she finds herself just barely checking her impulses. She goes straight to Win only at the last minute thinking to call her “Mrs. Thursday”, and then realizing that the Inspector is the one she has met before, at least in the minds of all those gathered within earshot. 

She’s thankful that he’s rather gruff in his insistence of “no story today”, it pulls her back from Win who is stone faced beside her, studying her husband intently. The relief is short lived as she finds herself invoking a phrase that prior to six months ago she abhorred, “nothing on the record today”. She can almost feel Win stiffen next to her as she catches herself in the smallest pause, remembering, and then recovers, “I’d just like to help.” She does not meet her eye, but gives her a slight glance that the she feels holds so much that it’s almost laughable that the Inspector doesn’t feel the weight of it.

And then he’s gone and Dotty’s leading Win away. She wants to stop right there in the street, wrap her arms around her. Comfort her the best way she knows how, because words will do nothing. Her daughter’s in a building not a block away, and there’s nothing either of them can do about it. All they have is touch. And if they were old friends it would be the most natural thing in the world to embrace in the midst of fear and panic. 

But all she can give her is a hand to the small of her back as she leads her towards a haphazard tea table and they both settle into this most basic of rituals. Win can feel her thumb stroking along her spine, across her shoulder blades, the urge to lean into the touch enormous. They’ve been here before in a pantomime of normalcy. Regular friends (or particular friends, rather) just having tea. But they’re in public, and ostensibly have only just met, so Win forces herself away, busying her hands with the cups and saucers. 

At the last minute, she hesitates, chastising herself internally. “How do you take it?” she asks, forcing her hands not to reach for the sugar automatically. The question reverberates in her head, echoes of another time, another morning, grey dawn seeping through the curtains in the sitting room, and the kettle hissing secrets on the stove.

As if Win doesn’t know. As if this is a normal situation. As if they haven't been here before. Dotty’s overwhelmed with affection for her as she remembers how desperately she clings to these small things in times of trouble.

She rests her hands on Win’s arm, just where the cuff of her cardigan ends. They’re warm through the thin wool of her cardigan, just like they’d been that night, brushing against her cheek, caressing her throat, splayed against her stomach. Intimate and strong and tender all at once. 

“Mrs. Thursday, let me.” 

Win swallows, and turns her wrist just so, not so as the tall woman police officer standing by the table would notice, but just enough that Dotty’s fingers brush lightly against the thrumming of her pulse. “Win,” she says as she steps away from the table so that she collides gently with Dotty, leaning back briefly before murmuring an apology and moving to the side. “Win’s just fine.”

It’s difficult not to stare at Dotty’s hands as she makes the tea--the graceful arc of her wrist, long fingers wrapped around the cups. Win forces herself to look away, and again her gaze alights on the doors of the bank. A cup appears in her line of sight, breaking her concentration, and she gives Dotty a small smile to cover the knot of emotions in her chest.

The tea is strong and sweeter than she likes, but she drinks it anyway. They stand there for what seems like an impossibly long time, watching Fred’s men watch the bank, paying little enough attention to their cup that it grows cold. There’s a shout from down the street, and Win turns away, steeling herself against the unknown.

With forced casualness, she asks, “Have you been here long?” 

Dotty tries to match her tone, one of gentle small talk but also one that, she hopes, conveys the fact that she hasn’t had a moment to gain any sense of what is going on. She doesn’t have any information to ease Win’s mind, much as she would like to. “No, I’ve only just arrived.” Tentatively she asks, fully aware that she is risking an onslaught of emotion, “How are you holding up?”

Win’s gaze is far off, seeing past the bank and into something only visible to her. “I’m alright,” she says, then takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. A mantle of calm settles over her. “I’m fine.” There are undercurrents in her tone--fear and love and something maternal.

Dotty remembers this miraculous strength that Win seems to be able to summon through sheer force of will.. She’s thought on it often since that night with Win, both in admiration of her, and in sadness for the chain of events that had made it necessary. Even for all the people gathered round them she shouldn’t have to be so strong, and she wants to offer her a way out. She whispers, “It’s alright if you’re not.” Win doesn’t meet her eyes. She’s clearly not going to take the implied invitation. So she follows her lead and says in a businesslike manner, “But, no, you’re right. No sense fretting yet. So much we don’t know. Just have to wait I suppose.”

A nod is her answer, grateful and sharp. Another breath. “Our Joan is in there. She’s a teller.” And here, her voice betrays her, cracking slightly. “Best they’ve got.” The thought of Joan is painful, leading to a hundred questions for which she has no answers. Is she hurt? Is she scared? Does she know her dad’s coming for her? 

She’s barely holding up, Dotty can see that now. She can almost see the thoughts relentlessly cycling behind her eyes. She’ll do all she can to help her keep up her facade of composure, “I know you must be proud.” She’s said this to her before hasn’t she? “I’m sure she’s fine”, she continues, but what a hollow statement that is. She has years of crime data in her head and she searches for anything practical that might be of some comfort. “These kinds of things don’t usually have many--” she was going to say casualties. What was she thinking? “She’s going to be alright”, she finishes.

With a wince, Win finishes her tea and straightens her spine. “Yes, you’re right.” She hesitates, then shifts a bit on her feet, leaning close enough to smell Dotty’s perfume, and underneath, the unmistakeable whiff of cigarette smoke. It’s calming in ways she chooses not to examine too hard as her shoulder brushes Dotty’s. “Can I tell you a secret?” she asks quietly, glancing up almost through her lashes. “I wish Fred were here.” She can almost see the hurt in Dotty’s eyes, so she barrels on. “He always has a pack of cigarettes squirreled away behind his notebook, and I could really do with one now.” Her smile is thin and wan, but it’s there.

At least here is something she can actually do to help. “As do I.” She reaches in her cardigan pocket. “Although I wouldn’t say ‘squirreled away,’ I’d say at my fingers’ ends at all times.” She laughs, relieved to have a reason to laugh. “Don’t think I could meet a deadline without them.” She offers her the half empty pack, and trying to strike a balance between tenderness and practicality in her tone says, “Take whatever you need, Win”

That tone, so reminiscent of before, sends a warmth through her. Carefully, she reaches for one, and brushes her fingers lightly over the back of Dotty’s hand, just enough that she knows it’s deliberate. “Thank you,” she breathes, and tries to press into the words the entirety of her meaning. Thank you for being here, for being you, for being mine. “I’ll find some way to repay you.”

Dotty holds out her lighter, and Win leans forward, brushing their arms together again, then pulls back, shifting so she’s not blowing smoke into her face. Or really, she thinks with the tiniest of humor, into her neck. It’s ridiculous, she knows, but it’s better than crying. 

In spite of herself Dotty’s a bit overcome by the suggestion that Win would need to repay her for anything. She’s already allowed and given (and blissfully so) far more than Dotty would have thought possible. Her words come out only a step ahead of her thoughts, “Don’t even think on it, there’s no need. You already have.” Realizing what she’s said, she shifts away. If she didn’t feel so emotionally raw she would be reproaching herself for letting her thoughts take this turn now of all moments. She forces her voice into politeness, “I’m enjoying the company.”

But Win just smiles at her, and brushes her fingers over Dotty’s upper arm. “As am I, though I’d prefer it were under better circumstances.” Her hand drops, skimming just along her blouse until they’re near enough to lace with Dotty’s. For a moment, they hesitate, then Win pulls back, forcing her gaze to the bank. The lines on her face deepen again and she takes a steadying puff of her cigarette.

Dotty is all too aware of how close their hands were in that moment. But she is also very cognizant of the WPC watching Win in concern. So she merely says, “Me too”, and remembering she is speaking to a woman she has supposedly never met says, “Must be nice, daughter.”

Win wraps one arm around her middle and nods. “She’s a good girl.” And then, because good isn’t nearly enough to justify the clenching of her lungs, the thudding of the pulse in her neck, “The best. I know I’m her mother, but…” She lets it trail off. But she is.

Win’s struggling again. She can tell. And she’s powerless to help her. It isn’t just that she doesn’t have the words. It might be enough just to wrap her in her arms. It might be only thing she could do. But she can’t. “She’ll be alright.” It’s all she can say.

The answer is quick, almost rote, and clearly something Win has told herself more than once. “Yeah. Fred’ll sort it.” She thinks back, and for a moment she’s somewhere else, someplace in the past. “He always does.” And then, with hands that only barely don’t shake, she takes another drag of her cigarette, letting the silence fall heavy between them.

It is the exact outcome that Dotty wants: for Fred to “sort it”, for him to take charge of the situation and save the day as he clearly has done countless other times if the crime reports are any indication. So she’s not quite sure why Win’s tone as she’s said this disarms her so. Because she’s clearly not talking about police work? Because implied are so many small daily domestic, and no less important for being so, problems that they’ve built a life around solving. She takes a breath both wanting and not wanting such a life. But wanting Win none the less, and wanting to be the person to “sort it”. The thought leaves her restless, “Would you like to walk?” she offers.

That startles Win into a “Yes” immediately, from which she bites off the “of course.” But then she hesitates, frowns. “No. I can’t. I should…” Her hand twists helplessly towards the knotted police officers. “I should stay. If something happens.” It’s clear she’s torn, wanting to be simultaneously as far and as near as possible.

Dotty puts a hand to her shoulder. Drawing her attention away from the bank is really all that she can do to keep her from being paralyzed with worry. And if they want to have anything resembling a real conversation they will have to get away from the assembled officers. “We don’t have to go far.” She says gently. 

With a final drag of her cigarette, Win nods and stubs it out on the ashtray on the table. “Alright,” she says, and settles her bag on her elbow. The WPC gives Win a smile which she returns, though slightly more tightlipped. For a moment, she follows Dotty in silence, then lengthens her stride to catch up to the other woman, trying to ignore the feeling that she’s turning her back on Joan.

When they are finally out of earshot Dotty ventures, “Everything turned out alright before you know. Everything will be alright today too.” It’s completely flawed logic, but she hopes it will provide some minimal comfort.

Still by rote, Win takes another breath. “I know. Fred will sort it.” But she brushes her fingers over the back of Dotty’s hand and moves a fraction closer. After a moment, she seems to shake off something and says, quietly, “I didn’t expect to see you here.” There’s nothing but warmth and familiarity in her tone, with perhaps just a hint of gratitude.

Dotty allows herself to take her hand saying, “Wouldn’t want you be on your own.” She doesn’t grasp her fingers for very long, but it’s long enough to worry her. “Win? You’re shaking.”

Win carefully isn’t looking at her, shoulders straight and square. “It’s...a lot to take in. My daughter. My husband.” A tiny pause, then her fingers are tightening around Dotty’s. “You.”

“I know.” She takes a step closer, wanting to touch her forehead to hers, wanting to hold her face in both her hands, gently, softly. She doesn’t. But she doesn’t let go of her hands.”Don’t worry about me...us...just..I’m here to help so…” She pauses mentally searching for anything real that she has to give. “I have a coat in my car. Might help with the chill?” She starts to turn away from her then hesitates. “You’ll be alright here for a moment?”

With another squeeze, Win lets her go. “I’m fine,” she says with an unconvincing smile that she bolsters when Dotty looks unconvinced. “Really.” She does her best to look it until Dotty’s turned her back.

When she returns with the coat, Win is picking idly at the peeling paint of a railing. The look she gives Dotty is equal parts guilt and embarrassment, though she says nothing, just turns around when Dotty gently steers her away to settle the coat on her. 

“Alright”, she says as she gently turns her around, grateful to be doing something, grateful for the small touches that can hide within such a quick, soft and practical task. “It’s not much but...I  
hope it helps.” She lets her hands rest on her shoulders.

Win reaches up and rests her hand on Dotty’s briefly, butterfly presses on her skin, then slides it down, ostensibly resettling the collar. “It’s perfect, thank you,” she breathes, meaning you’re perfect. For a moment they stand there, taking in the little comfort. But Win’s attention is drawn to the small cluster of constables who are being something less than discrete in watching her. She can practically hear the whispers now. There’s the governor’s missus talking to that reporter bird.

Regret slithers up her spine, accompanied by a flash of annoyance. She gestures towards Dotty’s car. “Can we…?”

Dotty is immediately relieved. It isn’t exactly away from prying eyes or ears but it’s the best they have. “Of course.” She unlocks the door and opens the passenger side door for Win. When they are both settled with the doors closed she allows herself to relax, as much as she’s capable of at the moment.

Win huddles into the coat, burying her nose in the smell of cigarette smoke, ink, and perfume. Then, so quietly Dotty might not even hear, “How have you been, Dotty?” Here in the car, the name falls from her lips differently somehow--warmer, more intimate.

She’s prepared to deflect so mundane a question in so intimate a voice with, “Fine. Busy.” She falls back on convenient self deprecation, “Drowning in newsprint as usual.” She wants to spare both of them from the turn the conversation is about to take, but she gives in and and says, “I was...quite glad to hear the inspector was back at the station. I was worried. About both of you.”

For a long while, Win doesn’t say anything, just tucks her hands into the sleeves of Dotty’s jacket and stares out the window at something a million miles and another lifetime ago. “It was...slow going for a while,” she allows, voice deep and thick with half-remembered pain and fear. “But we managed.”

Another silence falls, then, even more quietly, “I never thanked you. For...for before.”

She feels her face flush. It’s absurd, because how many times has she remembered that night? She ought to be immune by now. She looks out the window, shifts in the seat. Clearly she’s not. “Oh...it’s…” Nothing? No, it’s not nothing. “I’m not sure how much help I was.” She pauses, fighting the worry that has plagued her since. Despite Win’s protests to the contrary, the thought that she had taken advantage has bothered her. It kept her from doing the decent thing and called, making sure he was alright, making sure she was alright too after everything. She’d heard Thursday was back at the station and she’d let it go, which she feared was cowardly. She turns back to Win, smiles a bit painfully but can’t meet her eye. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. Once I heard Inspector Thursday was out of the woods I thought you might need some time.”

Win’s hand lands on her wrist gently, the same warm, tender touch she’d given all those long months ago. “You were more than helpful. You were…” Here, she shrugs and has to force her gaze to stay steady, though Dotty hasn’t looked up. “A sort of necessity. A minor miracle.” She squeezes gently. “You were always welcome, love. You still are.”

She doesn’t know how to take this last remark so all she says is,“Thank you.” Win’s eyes are the same mix of brightness and sorrow as they had been the evening they’d met. She doesn’t think she can bear too long a look so she glances away, but she also can’t bear to stop talking about it now that they’ve finally started.“I wasn’t sure...it was a very...emotional night.” But that makes it sound vague and unimportant, like poorly written copy. She grabs Win’s hand and continues, “It was a wonderful night.” And here she has to make some assumptions about whether or not Win’s been through all this before. She doubts it. “But...speaking from experience, nights like that don’t always have a happy ending.” She laughs bitterly. “Or a second chapter.” She rubs wearily at her eyes. She feels suddenly exhausted. “Or even an epilogue.” She can almost feel Win feeling for her, and the last thing she wants is for her to feel guilty. She’s nothing but genuine when she says, “And that’s understandable I suppose.”

Win’s thumb sweeps gently over Dotty’s knuckles even as her heart clenches painfully. Events of the past year mingle with another time, a different accent, the sound of air raid sirens and the radio playing quietly with news of the front. But all she says is “I’m sorry, love,” in a hushed voice, and barely resists the urge to kiss Dotty’s knuckles. “Understandable doesn’t make it easier.”

And Win’s careful kindness isn’t making this any easier. “No, it doesn’t.” She continues with the words that have become an unfortunate daily refrain in her head. “But I understand. You’ve a family. You’re married. Happily so I’m assuming? And it’s....understandable if you need to put all of this, behind you.”

There’s a long hesitation, weighed with conflicting desires before Win manages to force the words out. “It’s...it’s not a matter of needing to do anything for myself.” She turns towards Dotty, willing her to understand. “But the children. And Fred.” Tenderly, she squeezes Dotty’s hand again. “But we can still see each other. As friends.” 

It’s woefully inadequate, she knows, to calm the thudding of her heart when she sees Dotty, or even thinks about her, to stem the tide of desire that surges through her veins at the thought of that night, to ease the ache on long cold nights when she’s almost certain there’s no one to bring warmth to Dotty’s life.

It is less than Dotty had hoped but more than she had feared that they would ever be able to have, and she says,“I...of course. I wouldn’t ask anything else of you. I want you in my life. However you’ll have me.” And it’s true. There are night long dalliances and then there are people that you worry after, think of often, whose happiness you desperately wish for, and Win was all of it.

For a moment, Win looks at her. Then, quickly, she eyes the windscreen, checks the mirrors, then brings the hand in hers to her lips, kissing Dotty’s knuckles before resettling them in her lap, though not before she laces their fingers together. Her voice is full of regret and sorrow and a hundred other things too dense to unpick. “If we’d met at a different time,” she says, brows slightly furrowed. “In a different place…” Her heart aches for the weary resignation settling in the lines around Dotty’s mouth, in the curve of her shoulders, the tension in her hands.

But hearing this coming from Win is too much, and Dotty’s eyes prick and she blinks furiously, looking away. She will not allow herself to cry here and now in the midst of a crisis. She can’t believe that Win’s comforting her now with everything that’s happening. There’s no end to her resilience, her kindness. She takes a deep breath, drops her hand, makes sure her voice is steady. “Right. Right, I know. I’m sorry. You have bigger things on your mind right now. I know.”

Win lets her go, sensing her need to gather herself back together. She can’t leave it at that, though, can’t let Dotty go on thinking that she’s unimportant. So she takes a slow breath in and says, aiming for matter of fact, “I always have quite a few things on my mind. And one of them is usually you. Are you eating enough? Sleeping enough? Taking care of yourself? Do you have someone to love you?” She brushes tender fingers over Dotty’s forearm. “Are you happy?”

She will not answer that last question. She doesn’t know the answer. “Journalists never sleep enough.” She scoffs, see’s this answer won’t be enough. “I’m getting by. I don’t need you to worry.”

Narrowing her eyes slightly, Win evaluates her, letting her hand slide up Dotty’s shoulder. She turns slightly to face her across the car, thumb sweeping along the fabric of her blouse, sleeves of the coat slipping down to her forearms. “You deserve more than just ‘getting by,’ love. You deserve to be happy.”

Dotty remembers the way they’d talked that night. They had talked about love and partnership and, she supposed, that was the kind of happiness Win meant, the kind of happiness she deserved. They had agreed that it was, “the most beautiful thing in the world”. It was easier for Win, of course. Or maybe that was unfair. Maybe it was just more readily available and achievable. Of course it was never easy. Win of all people would know that. But she still clearly believed in it wholehearted, and wished that Dotty too could have that kind of beauty and happiness in her life however difficult and complicated it might be. She loved her for her hope and her optimism, and how hard she had worked to keep it alive. “You are beautifully idealistic.” 

The dodge isn’t lost on Win, who only sweeps her thumb along Dotty’s shoulder again before letting it drop. She says nothing, just watches as years, decades, of loneliness and sorrow and resignation settle like frost over the lines and planes of Dotty’s face. And you are just beautiful, she thinks. Too beautiful to be so unhappy.

She knows Win’s not going to let this go. So she gives her the truth. Or the truth she tells herself when she’s at her best, “Happy enough, Win.”

“Alright,” Win says in her gentlest, most tender tones. She turns back to the front, watching the bank through the windscreen and letting silence fall between them.

It doesn’t last long before there’s a flurry of activity from the police officers, the echoing retort of a pistol, from behind the bank. Win scarcely breathes as she watches, until, a small eternity later, Fred emerges from the alley, face set in grim lines, with their daughter tucked against his side.

Win’s out of the car before she’s thought about it, leaving Dotty’s coat crumpled in the front seat of her car, forgotten.


End file.
